Fred had sold six Duplexes before twilight the next day.

But at home, quiet beside Hazel on the couch, listening to a nostalgic Hawaiian radio quartette (from the Bronx), Fred pondered, ‘Yuh, it was a good show. I’m a swell salesman AND a good showman. But — funny — the kick don’t seem to last. I felt kind of naked out there, watching the Duplexes dress and undress in public. Am I getting tired of just being a showman, honey? Then what ‘ll I DO?

He did not speak to Hazel, he didn’t even speak to himself, about the important occurrence of the Old Home Week parade.

During the passing of the Duplexes, Fred had wandered away from Hazel, to greet possible customers, and in the crowd had come upon Putnam Staybridge and Annabel.

But for the treachery of George Washington, Mr. Staybridge would now be Gen. the Rt. Hon. Sir Putnam Staybridge, P.C., D.S.O., K.C.M.G., and though he had been robbed of this rightful label, yet in the precision of his little beard, the quiet intolerance of his grey eyes, the erectness of his frail shoulders, Mr. Staybridge showed his private knightliness. He was devoting it now to sneering at the Duplex demonstration, and it did not help Fred to know that Mr. Staybridge had some unacknowledged interest in the opposition Conqueror Motor Company.

‘How d’you do, Mr . . . Cornplow,’ said Mr. Staybridge. But Fred felt that he didn’t really much care how he did, or whether he did at all. Putnam was already ignoring him while he acknowledged the passing of a woman acquaintance by pinching the top of his hat and slightly widening his lips, like the stretching of a rubber band.

But Annabel was beaming. Fred flagrantly winked at her.

Five minutes later, while Fred was watching the passing of the Boy Scouts, someone plucked at his sleeve, and he looked down — not very far down — on a shy Annabel.

He comprehensively remarked, ‘Well, well!’

‘Father’s gone and . . .’

‘You stay with me. I’ll guard you. I used to be a G-man.’

‘Honestly?’

‘Absolutely. I captured Jesse James.’

‘Jesse James wasn’t captured. He was shot in the back by a member of his gang.’

Fred looked on Annabel with favour. How rare it was, he thought, to find anyone under thirty these days who was not dazzled by the movies and aviation, but knew such sanctities of American history as the James Boys. ‘Good girl,’ he said. He could not treat her like a Staybridge. She really seemed human. He grumbled, ‘Afraid your father didn’t care much for my trick trailers, Miss Staybridge.’

‘I’m afraid he enjoys not caring for much of anything. Uh . . . uh . . .’ Annabel twisted a button of his coat. ‘Have you seen Howard?’

‘Not for a few days. He’s coming down for my birthday party, at the house, week from next Tuesday. Look! Why don’t you come?’

‘I’d love to, Mr. Cornplow!’